


No Rest For The Wicked

by snazzydragons



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Wow, so slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snazzydragons/pseuds/snazzydragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Joan agrees to help a vault dweller out, she expects to be paid and then left alone to drink her caps away. Stuck in the Ninth Circle, Charon expects to spend many more years staring at a dirty wall. Little Miss 101 has other ideas, however, and the wasteland is only too happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daily Impressions

Chapter One - Daily Impressions.

Joan

The first time she’d been shot, the pain had been unreal. White-hot and blinding, her body spasming out of control from the shock of it, lungs working overtime to suck in dirty, stagnant air as though it could somehow heal the damage. This time, Joan thinks, is not that different. Slumped against the rusted counter of the Super-Duper Mart, she rummages in her backpack jerkily, trying not to aggravate the bleeding in her dominant shoulder. 

Raiders are always a headache, nesting in broken buildings like they own the last remains of a dead civilization, but they have never got one up on her before. She searches for a stim, but all she finds is a half-empty bottle of water. Better than nothing - she swigs the foul liquid, finds a scrap of cloth, ties it around the wound with her teeth. This seems to stem the bleeding somewhat.

“Hiding from me? Better hope I don't find you!” Sounds out from behind the shelves. Then quieter, “Scared, just like a little bitch.”

Joan fights the urge to roll her eyes. Fucking raiders. The only thing more damaging to her pride than being cornered by these unwashed cretins, is getting shot by one. She lifts her scoped .44 in her weaker right hand, grips it harder to stop the shaking, and gently slinks into the shadows by the wall. The idiot who shot her stands in the open, peering into the darkness - facing the complete opposite way from where she stands. 

In her minds eye, Joan sees herself step out into view, take him by surprise with a charming quip and then shoot him point-blank while he struggles to comprehend the depth of her wit. It sounds fantastic, like the kind of story you’d tell to impress a crowded bar. She’ll be sure to use it - the truth is never anywhere as glamorous.

Stilling her breathing, Joan looks through the scope and puts a hole through the raider’s head. 

His body thumps to the floor noisily, the metal of his armour clanking against the concrete. She doesn’t have long. Already, voices are calling questions from deeper in the building. Joan slings her backpack onto her good arm, and carefully, carefully comes around the corner, keeping low to the ground, her gun held up in front of her like a shield. 

The raiders make so much noise with their ridiculous homemade armour - mostly pots and pans crudely strung together in some semblance of protection - that it’s almost laughably easy to avoid them in the ruined interior of the Super-Duper Mart. She patiently circles the store, keeping them at a constant 180 degree angle away from herself. The guy who had shot her must’ve been a fluke. Raiders were wild, untrained, ready to shoot anything that moved without the thought of aiming. Joan was too busy rifling through ammunition containers she hadn’t even noticed him come up behind her, didn’t think she’d have to keep her guard up.

She reaches the farthest corner, just as the others discover their dead friend. Indignant shouts rise up, promising to do physically impossible things to whoever dared to break through their impeccable defenses. There isn’t much time. She can chastise herself for her lax attention when she is safe. Joan ducks through a door that has been left ajar, comes across another, this one locked. A computer terminal nearby buzzes with static. She considers it for a brief second, before fishing out a bobby pin from her hair, kneeling by the door to try and pick it open. Hacking isn’t easy, and worse still, time-consuming. Every moment spent messing around is a moment less to finish what she came here for. 

The bobby pin clicks true, and she’s in. She shuts the door behind her, sees a storage room and evaluates her find. Scavenging for a living is simple if not particularly rewarding for most people. Joan isn’t most people. Only the biggest, riskiest prizes fetch the kind of price she’s interested in. At first, needing to pick apart dishevelled corpses and abandoned places for loot had felt degrading. But loot had quickly turned into caps, and then it seemed as though she might have been made for this. 

Assessing the shelves and counters before her, Joan feels a triumphant smile pull at her lips. She is made for this, and today, the risk and the bullet lodged under her sternum are worth it. She looks over her discovery, mentally cataloguing the things she will be taking with her. 

First comes the ammo: .10 and .5mm rounds, shotgun shells, darts and a mini-nuke (a mini-nuke?!), followed by the drugs in the first aid kit on the wall, unopened bottles of Nuka-Cola and Nuka-Cola Quantum, pilot lights and surgical tubing, pre-war money carefully placed between cartons of cigarettes. Abandoned stims stuffed into her pockets, whiskey and beer clinking dully against scrap metal, a bottle of vodka in her hand, one unlit cigarette on her lips. 

There is another computer in this room, this time for activating an old Protectron. For once, it’s a no-brainer. Joan brings out a pad of paper and a pencil, looks through the long lines of code, trying her hand at decryption. Hacking isn’t easy, and it’s time-consuming, but sometimes it’s so worth it.

The Protectron activates with a flash of fluorescent light, blaring warning codes, and makes its way out of the storage room. Joan waits several beats before sounds of battle ensue - it seems the raiders have come across her new partner. This is her chance. Her backpack is full to bursting, so she drapes the tattered handles around her shoulders firmly, surprised that her injury doesn’t hurt more. While the robot is entertaining the raiders, she carefully creeps to the side entrance, sets a frag mine by the doors, just in case, and slips through into the sunlight.

Evelyn

The ravaged land of the National Mall glows orange in the setting sun, deceptively peaceful despite the dangers Evie knows are hidden in the trenches. She pulls up her pip-boy, flicks through the slides on the amber screen. The machine gives a faint beep, then another, angry red markers popping up to indicate not-so-distant threats. She counts fifteen in total, all hidden from her sight. Thank God. If she can’t see them, they can’t see her. 

She gets her pistol out and ready anyway, just in case. The broken cupola of the Capitol looms in the distance, the stone strangely dulled and weathered. Evie tries to picture it the way she’d seen it in old history books: shining polished white, the Mall a stretch of spring lawns and flowering trees instead of grey-earthed ditches full of monsters and splintered cement. It doesn’t work. The very symbol of America remains broken, and the nightmare that started when her father left continues. 

The ghouls she met near Farragut Metro told her of a settlement their fellows had made in the Museum of History just off the Mall. She fondly remembers Gob mentioning it to her when they’d first met: Underworld, the city of ghouls. Honestly, she’s not quite sure what to expect. The ghouls she has met up to now have ranged from the friendly to the hostile, angry at her for being human, and untouched by radiation. Would she be welcomed as a potential ally or shunned as a potential threat?

There is no time to decide. “You lost, tourist?” Evie hears, nearly jumping out of her skin at the rough voice. Her reaction is all wrong, hands clumsily fumbling with the catch on her gun, which she promptly drops in her panic. The ghoul woman who had spoken watches the display with a bemused expression. Evie’s face burns. 

“Jumpy, ain’t ya, smoothskin? Up to no good?”

Smoothskin. It was a term Evie had been called before, by other ghouls, when she wasn’t welcome. This woman used it nonchalantly, but her face was openly curious, her semi-automatic casually pointing at the ground. Perhaps her luck is finally changing.

“I’ve heard there’s a settlement here. Underworld.” Evie offers cautiously. “I’d like to trade.”

The woman considers, looking her up and down with a measured eye. “Your kind aren’t usually so keen to deal with us ghouls, but you seem alright, kid. Harmless, too. Name’s Willow.”

They shake hands, and Evie tries not to let the relief she feels show on her face. “Evie.” She looks up at the pillared building behind Willow, the face of it jogging a faded memory of her father telling her about dinosaurs. At the time, she’d been sure he was making up stories to make her childhood underground a little more bearable. With what she’s seen of the world, she’s no longer so sure. “How far is it?” 

“Why, you’re looking right at it. Want a tour?” Willow cackles jovially, beckoning her toward the entrance. “This is the Museum of History, of course. Underworld is inside.” They head inside, Evie’s neck craning as she tries to take it all in. The foyer is enormous, the ornate domed ceiling held up by marble columns. Inside the vast space stand two displays, one a shaggy elephant Evie knows is called a mammoth, the other a huge skeleton torn in two. Before she has time to wonder, Willow mutters ‘t-rex’. At this, her father’s words echo in her ear, and for a short time she forgets how to breathe, staring at the old bones. Willow stops, noticing, but doesn’t say anything. Who knows about smoothskins and their quirks? 

“Welcome to Underworld, tourist,” the ghoul rasps, when the kid looks about to burst into tears. Who’d let her out into DC, anyway? She should be holed up in some human outpost, oblivious to super-mutants and raiders and radiation, instead of traversing this sorry warzone with only a shitty pistol for protection. 

Evie tears her gaze away from the dinosaur, trying to push all thoughts of her father away in her head. She realises that Willows is gesturing toward something - another set of doors she hadn’t noticed. Above them is a huge skull carved into the marble of the wall. Willow chuckles at her expression.

“Don’t let it put you off, eh? We’re a friendly bunch. Mostly.” 

Evie grimaces. “Thanks for the tour.” 

“Enjoy your visit,” Willow does a mock curtsey, winking. She shoulders her rifle, salutes Evie, and goes back to her patrol. Evie watches her go, watches the doors of the museum slam closed, avoids looking at the dinosaur. She really does need to trade - she’s running low on food and medicine and has plenty of random loot the ghouls might find useful - but she still hesitates underneath the great skull. Her nerves buzz with anticipation for a possible threat. So many times she’s thought she’d found somewhere safe, only to be proved wrong, ambushed or mugged. The wasteland doesn’t function like she expects, it never follows rules, always startles her, always leaves her worse for wear. Every time she dares to hope for the best, she’s left with more wounds than she can count and less trust than she can bear.

And yet….and yet….maybe this time will be different. Maybe her luck is changing. 

Charon.

Twenty seven. Charon counts twenty seven empty beer bottles on the polished counter of Azrukhal’s bar. Twenty seven bottles on the bar but only thirteen patrons have sat around it today. Winthrop had drank through four of them, Quinn another seven, the shifty looking ghoul newcomer another three. Azrukhal himself had a fair share, taking long swigs while counting his caps with delirious precision. He looks up at Charon now, sensing his gaze, and sneers, pocketing the money. Charon looks away from the bar and stares at a point on the wall, his jaw working. Azrukhal has always been a heartless bastard, cheating and lying his way through life for as long as Charon has worked for him. But he saves his most thoughtful cruelty for his own personal ghoul slave.

It’s the little things the bastard does. Like making him watch over the bar during closing hours, when there’s not a ghoul in sight and absolutely nothing to entertain himself with. Like making sure that when there are others, he is not allowed to exchange words or even glances with them. Azrukhal likes the others to know just how tightly he holds his leash, so he sends Charon on errands into the wastes. Intimidating traders and murdering those who have wronged him, but always dragging his sorry ass home like a well-trained mutt. 

If he had the power and the opportunity, Charon would break his neck with his bare hands. 

Still watching the vomit-coloured walls, he catches movement in his periphery, a wasted ghoul he doesn’t know gets up and tries to totter off. Azrukhal is on him like a hawk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He drawls lowly, eyes narrowed dangerously. “You just drank through 30 caps worth of booze. Pay up.”

The ghoul staggers on his feet, tries to grab onto something to steady himself. Tries to make excuses. Because Azrukhal is a money-grubbing fucker, and because Azrukhal gets off on the pain of others, Charon knows what will happen next. 

“Charon, why don’t you show our friend what we do with ghouls who don’t pay their tabs at the Ninth Circle?”

The poor sod tries to scramble away before Charon has even moved, his face a mask of terror. His excuses rise in pitch. When Charon steps closer, they turn into prayers. He quivers on the floor, begging him to stop, as if he had a choice. 

Somewhere in his mind, a switch flicks. He’s only barely aware of what occurs next, feels the blood spray warm against his skin. After the switch, he tells himself, it’s the contract that is doing the evil, not him. Sometimes he even believes it. Azrukhal is chuckling darkly at the sounds of pain echoing through the bar. 

Charon is screaming on the inside.


	2. Fateful Meetings

Chapter 2 - Fateful Meetings.

Joan

When she wakes up, she is faced with the worn marble of a familiar interior. An antiseptic smell, underlaid with something darker assaults her senses. She's in a clinic. The Chop Shop. Joan sits up suddenly, her vision swimming. How the hell did she get here?

"Whoa there, careful."

Nurse Graves rushes up, pressing a reassuring hand to her shoulder to steady her. Everything hurts. She presses her forehead into her hands, trying to conjure up some memory of how she ended up here.

"Where…?"

Graves shushes her, switching her attention to the wound on her shoulder. The hasty dressing from before has been replaced with tidy, clean bandages stretched from Joan's upper arm to the middle of her ribcage. The ghoul fusses with the gauze, loosening it in some places and tightening it in others. Underneath, Joan's skin itches. She absently runs her fingers over the injury, marvelling at the lack of pain. Graves takes her chin and shines a small torch in both eyes. Whatever she sees there, she seems satisfied.

"You were in quite a state when you showed up," She rasps softly. "I had to dose you before Barrows found out you were back."

Joan scowls at the mention of the ghoul doctor. "He's never gonna let me live it down, is he?"

"No." Graves snorts, then looks at her chart, all business again. "How much of your journey here do you remember?"

Vague images flash in her mind's eye: memories of the Super-Duper Mart, snatches of the wasteland, Willow's wry face. "Not much."

"You lost a lot of blood from your shoulder. There was poison in your system, too. Radscorpion, I think."

"Radscorpion?"

"Yup. You were delirious when Willow dragged you in here. Hallucinating. She said she heard you from beyond the Museum, only she didn't know it was you then. She had to drag you some of the way."

It's Joan's turn to laugh. "Drag me back some of the way? What, and the Super-Mutants had nothing to say about that?"

"The muties…" Graves pauses. "She said they just watched."

Joan's heart drops. This can't be right. "Watched." She echoes, whispering. "They didn't attack?"

"Well, yes. It seems that way."

Graves trails off. She looks like she wants to say more, wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Whatever it is, Joan doesn't want to hear it. She stands, a little unsteadily, searching the small room for her belongings. Her dirty clothes are piled on top of her backpack at the foot of her cot, the shirt soaked with blood. She'll have to burn it. The rest of her armour has maintained its quality. She shrugs the studded leather jacket over her bandages; they will serve well enough as a shirt for the time being. The backpack is still just as heavy as it was. Joan decides to drag it along, instead of risking opening her wound.

Graves has retreated to the other side of the room, checking the vitals of an unconscious human woman. It seems she has accepted Joan's wordless dismissal of the conversation. Joan feels a flicker of guilt, though it is mostly overshadowed with relief. She hesitates, torn between wanting to keep the peace with a woman who has patched her up and wanting to be anywhere but here. She runs a hand through her hair, a nervous habit.

A thick clump of it comes away in her fingers. She runs her thumb over the limp tendrils, almost disbelievingly. There is a bathroom next door, and in it a broken mirror above the sink. Joan finds herself staring at the polished glass from the doorway, hovering, trying to force herself closer so she can inspect the damage. She hasn't looked at herself in a mirror for over six months.

She edges closer, hesitantly. The mirror reflects the harsh fluorescent light into her eyes. For a moment, Joan can't see anything. Then she sees herself. Her temple is completely devoid of hair, the strands growing in uneven patches across the entire left side of the skull. The reason for the hair loss is obvious. The skin beneath is puckered and raw, tinged with an unhealthy green. The inflammation is spread over the left side of her head and behind her ear, running a neat border around her eye socket and down her cheekbone. The eye itself is discoloured, not quite blue, but on the verge of it: the colour of soapy water. It used to be brown.

Six months Joan has avoided seeing her reflection. Six months it took for her to lose another fraction of her humanity. She stares at the stranger in front of her, tries to recognise Johanna Maxwell in what is left of the face. But even that is unfamiliar - too careworn, too sharp.

Before the despair can overwhelm her, Joan looks away. It's time for her to take her leave.

As she heads for the exit, Doctor Barrows enters from a side-room, his attention occupied by a medical chart in his hand. He looks surprised to see her, but that surprise quickly turns into something unwelcome.

"Ah, it's you," he says, his eyes roving over her face. Or lack thereof.

Joan scowls at him darkly. When she was still mostly human, Barrows had been obsessed with studying her as the change set it. A fresh, newly-ghoulified specimen could completely overturn his research. he'd said, and she could help countless generations of ghouls by loaning herself for science. Barrows looks like he's likely to burst from the hundreds of questions he wants to ask her, but he bites his tongue.

Good. It seems he's learned from last time. Joan digs out a handful of caps from her pocket and leaves them on the desk next to the terminal.

She can't leave this place quickly enough.

Charon

In all the years he has stood in the Ninth Circle, Charon has never wanted anything more than a beer. A cold swig to slake his thirst, wet his parched throat, maybe numb his senses just a little. Sometimes he wants it more than he wants to catch a few hours of sleep on the dirty cot Azrukhal calls a bed. Often he wants it more than he wants to shoot the smug look off of the other ghoul's face. As if the bastard would let him have even a sip of the precious booze.

He eyes the bottles subtly from his usual corner, lined up in precise, neat rows. The bar is quiet tonight, the usual patrons away on business like Quinn, or already piss-drunk somewhere else in Underworld. Azrukhal is in the adjoining room, and his hearing isn't the same as it used to be. It would just take a few silent steps and a quick-handed rearranging to swipe one of those heavenly glass containers.

Before Charon can weigh up the risks, the bar doors swing open with an obnoxious crash, and the moment is forever lost. Azrukhal instantly hurries back in to see which of his esteemed customers has shown up, shooting a meaningful glare in Charon's direction, as though to remind him to be on his best behaviour.

"Why, hello. Welcome!"

The sudden change in Azrukhal's voice forces Charon to abandon his daydreaming. Only someone distinguished can get that kind of response - and someone distinguished usually means someone with a shit tonne of caps. Charon looks up to the bar, where the newcomer has settled, dropping their belongings unceremoniously on the dirty floor. Azrukhal nervously hovers over, smoothing the last remains of his hair down in a ridiculous attempt at civility. He clears his throat, then politely offers the patron a choice of drinks, his gravelly voice catching on the manners he is unused to.

"None of that shit." The customer cuts him off, piling caps on the bar.. "Something decent."

Azrukhal nearly explodes with excitement, his eyes bulging almost comically as he views the fortune in front of him. He doesn't waste a breath, and goes to the safe in the back, where he keeps his best booze on the occasion that someone with actual money might show up. Charon sighs heavily, before he can stop himself. Flashy wastelanders sometimes end up here, waving their caps around like they own the place. At least those idiots never come back to the bar; their skeletons probably littering the wasteland, baking in the sun.

At his sigh, the stranger turns around and fixes her gaze on him, their eyes locking before he has a chance to turn away. The woman stares hard. And taken completely off-guard he stares back, forgetting orders. Azrukhal barks his name in annoyance.   
Automatically, Charon tears his eyes away and looks at the usual spot on the wall. At first, he doubts himself - how could he not recognise her? Joan, right? She'd passed through Underworld before, doing whatever it is that she does, getting smashed, and passing out in Carol's crib. Not the most popular customer by far; unbearably arrogant in the way all smoothskins are, though most ghouls let it pass. Where Joan goes, caps follow. Then it slowly dawns on him. Last time she passed through was a while back, and she still had all the skin on her face, all the hair on her head, and they all called her smoothskin. Oh, the irony, Charon thinks.

"Still got your guard dog keeping the baddies away?" Joan asks then, scoffing. She has already made her way through a third of the bottle Azrukhal had given her. It takes Charon a second to realize she's talking about him. Somehow, he's not even surprised by the venom in her words.

Azrukhal pauses a second."He is very useful. He keeps the rabble in this place in line, and he's very good at protecting my -ah- interests." Almost as an afterthought, he adds. "But I would not go so low as to call him a guard dog." Charon is surprised to hear a trace of annoyance in his employer's voice. Seems even Azrukhal's patience runs thin when his assets are offended.

Joan laughs then, short and sharp, taking a swig. "Would slave be a better term, then?"

The bar owner doesn't reply straight away. Charon peers over, curious as to how Azrukhal will react. His hand grips the shotgun at his side in preparation for the inevitable.

"Madam, you wound me. Slavery is abhorrent to me. It goes against everything I stand for."

Pretty words. If only they were true.

The wastelander seems equally cynical. She cocks her head in amusement, and takes another swig. "Next you'll be telling me he's just your loyal employee, following commands due to his unabating respect for you and - everything you stand for."

"Charon and I have an understanding. And a legitimate contract of employment." Azrukhal explains. It's a story Charon has heard him tell before, each time an Underworld resident has expressed distaste at his presence in the Ninth Circle. Though, in previous cases, that distaste was mostly aimed at him, and the likelihood of him killing someone in Underworld. A distaste that Azrukhal encouraged, for his own reasons.

"Mmm-hmm." Joan hums, "You know, out there in the Wasteland, there are a lot of rumours about you. And him. And what your employment consists of. It would take a slave to carry out orders like that. Or a coward." She turns her head a fraction, as though to indicate her exact thoughts on who in the room is a coward.

Charon feels sick. It's as though his brain can't decide whether to feel offended or guilty. In the end, he just feels a draining kind of emptiness. It seems that Azrukhal has also had enough. He looks nervous, no doubt worrying about the truth of her accusations. He motions with a hand, their prepared signal for when a patron is being difficult. Joan's eyes follow the gesture. She smiles and guzzles down the rest of her drink.

"I think you've had quite enough, my dear." Azrukhal warns.

"Have I? Is that what this wonderful feeling is?"

Charon leaves his corner, to come and stand nearer the bar, where his presence can add substance to Azrukhal's otherwise empty threats. Joan's mouth curls at the motion, but she doesn't look at him. There's a part of him that doesn't want to hurt another person, even a vicious one like her. But the freedom to make his own choices has long passed.

"Charon will escort you out."

At this, she finally meets his eye. She holds his gaze, daring him to escort her. When a long moment passes, and it becomes clear that she isn't going to move, Azrukhal coughs lowly into his hand. Another signal. Charon goes to grab her upper arm, a typical maneuver to drag the piss-drunk ghouls from the bar on most nights. But this isn't most nights. Joan dodges his hand, as though she hasn't just drunk her way through a half-bottle of 200-year-old whiskey, and stands. He recognises her posture - light on the balls of her feet - a subtle fighting stance. Standing at full height, she barely reaches his shoulder. Despite the obvious disadvantage, she leans in, pressing her palm against the armour of his chest, her skin barely touching the metal.

"What you gonna do, huh?" She murmurs lowly. "Kill me?"

Charon's tries to move away, but before he can Joan uses her palm to push him back, hard. He stumbles, and the anger slowly seeps in, leaving his heart low in his gut. He grips the edge of the bar to steady himself. In that instant, he fights down the fight or flight response his body is desperately trying to initiate. Neither option is feasible. She senses his hesitation, eyes lighting with a mixture of revulsion and pity.

Thankfully, there is no time for Azrukhal to intervene and end the exchange his way. Joan gives them one last scathing look, picks up her backpack and walks out. The doors swing shut behind her, cutting off the sound of cruel laughter.

Evelyn.

Evie can't believe her luck. Of all the people she has come across in the wasteland, none have been quite as open and amiable Carol. A ghoul who would be treated like a second-class citizen if she stepped one foot out of Underworld, Evie thinks with a guilty pang. The surprise of the hospitality she was greeted with has dulled to a warm sense of comfort. Somehow, in this place, with these people, she finally feels safe.

Evie tucks into her Pork n' Beans, absently flicking through the settings on her pip-boy. Her vitals look better after a good night of sleep, and some stimpaks. A visit to the local doctor had confirmed that the radscorpion poison had completely cleared out of her system. She hadn't even realized she had been poisoned until the bleariness had subsided. Her finances are looking healthier, too. First thing she did, was sell off the loot she had picked up on her way through the metro. Her bag is a little lighter, full of brand new medical supplies and ammo, instead of scrap armour and guns.

All in all, things seem to be looking up. Pork n' Beans finished, Evie salutes Carol behind the bar, and shrugs her backpack on. Through some subtle snooping around the residents of Underworld, she had heard some very interesting rumours. It's time to follow up on them.

Time to pay a visit to the Ninth Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethesda's announcement at E3 has rekindled my romance with the Fallout series.


	3. Chapter 3: Honest Agreements

Chapter 3 - Honest Agreements

Joan

Everything is spinning, and everything hurts, like her body has decided to make her life hell as revenge for her mistreatment of it. Joan can barely lift an arm to shield her sensitive eyes from the bright fluorescent lights of Carol’s place, without feeling the nausea roiling heavily in her gut. Maybe twenty shots worth of 200-year-old whiskey was a bad move. Maybe taking her frustrations out on Ahzrukhal and his bodyguard was going a bit too far. 

Remembering the bastard’s greedy eyes leering at her, Joan chides herself. Pissing Ahzrukhal off couldn't be considered far enough. He isn't the only ghoul in Underworld who watches her when he thinks she isn't looking. They probably consider her one of them now, and it's not as though there's an abundance of sex appeal left in Underworld. Still, the bartender better reconsider where his eyes are glued next time she visits, if he wants to keep them attached.

Joan risks opening her eyes a fraction, testing the limits of her hangover. The brightness stings, but at least the spinning has slowed to an uncomfortable swaying. She's getting better at dealing with the overdrinking. Whether that's a good or a bad thing, she doesn’t know. There's definitely something reassuring about the knowledge that she can knock herself out, numb all her senses to the world, and still do her job in the morning. It can't be doing her body any favours, though. As if sensing her thought process, Joan's stomach lurches violently, and she springs up from her cot, heaving dryly into a dirty bucket nearby. 

Wiping her mouth, she tries to distract herself with the sounds of the hotel. The familiar voices of the patrons blend together in a lull which seeps gently through the mesh curtains around Joan's rented cubicle. There's a nervous energy in this place, the same as any settlement where the dangers of the wasteland are waiting right outside. But it is as peaceful as anywhere in DC can be. Joan is almost ashamed to break that peace, when she knows she has earned the kind of reputation that exacerbates the nervousness. But she is who she is, and she has to go out and earn a living, same as everyone else. 

She is about to get up, and get on her way when she hears a new voice cut through the lull, one she does not immediately recognise. She stills, and listens in. The stranger is talking to Carol in a bright, friendly manner. The voice is one of a young woman, late teens maybe, or early twenties at most. There’s something strange about her tenor, not nearly enough wariness or hardship is present in the amiable tone. Curious, Joan steps closer to the mesh, trying to peer through the opaque material trying to catch a glimpse. 

What she sees intrigues her. A tall, blonde woman stands with Carol, gesturing with her hands. Beneath the rough leathers of her self-made armour a glimpse of cornflower blue and bright yellow peeks out, the clothes of a Vault Dweller. The number 101 is clearly emblazoned on the back, which is interesting. Joan is aware of the vault’s existence, somewhere in the hills near Megaton, but she never knew that the people in it had survived the apocalypse. 

As she watches, Carol says something to the woman, and points straight at Joan’s cubicle. The blonde girl turns, and their eyes meet through the material. There’s a pause and a moment of awkwardness, as the two women regard each other, when the newcomer smiles at Joan, and waves a hand timidly. 

“Hey,”

It’s time to stop feeling sorry for herself. Joan shrugs on her jacket, swings her backpack onto her shoulder, and exits the cubicle, trying her best to school her features into professional friendliness. 

“Need something?”

Blondy blinks, and flicks a brief look at Carol, who nods encouragingly. Definitely a teenager, the way she has already latched onto the mothering kindness of the older ghoul woman. It feels strange to be craning her neck to look up at a teenager that is taller than her, but by Joan’s standards, that encompasses the majority of the wasteland.

“Carol said I should speak to you,” The girl says, “if I wanted a job doing. Are you...available?”

“If the price is right.” Joan answers, not missing a beat.

The girl nods, and immediately reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small brown packet. She throws it to Joan, who catches it deftly. Joan gives it a shake. Inside, the sound of a considerable amount of caps jingles dully. Despite herself, Joan feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. The girl notices, and emboldened by her reaction, grins as well.

“Consider that your hiring fee. The rest will be waiting for you when we’re done.” She says.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Vaultie.” Joan replies, pocketing the money.

“Evie,” the girl reaches out a hand. Joan takes it readily, squeezing. 

“Joan,” 

Charon.

Charon didn’t think that Azrukhal could be meaner than usual, but after Joan’s display the night before, it looked like Azrukhal was in the worst mood of the century. Once the wastelander was through the doors, the bar owner took his frustrations out on a row of empty beer bottles, before rounding up on his bodyguard. According to the contract, he wasn’t allowed to lay a hand on Charon, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have better, more creative ways of punishing him. This time it involved sleep deprivation. Azrukhal told Charon exactly the number of hours he had to stand guard over the bar without food or sleep; it was in the high dozens. 

The next morning, service has resumed as usual. Azrukhal woke up and is readying the bar for the early risers, and the usual patrons are slowly trickling in. Charon stands in the same place he has stood for as long as he can remember, only this time it’s with a deficit of 26 hours of sleep. It looks like his master has decided to completely ignore him, which is his only saving grace.

Charon doesn’t know how much time had passed since the bar resumed service. He is in a state of high that couldn’t be matched by any drug he’s ever taken - a sense of empty, cold delirium which makes the lights of the bar too bright, and the raspy tone of the ghouls too loud. The monotony is broken when the doors of the bar swing open for the sixth time that day. He doesn’t really care who it is that comes through those doors now, but then he notices a bright flash of yellow that draws his eye. 

There, in front of him, is the cleanest human he has ever seen. Charon wonders for a second if he has finally gone mad and started hallucinating, but no, Azrukhal sees her just as quickly and rushes to put on his best “new customer” face. The girl is a vault dweller, made clear by the blue-and-yellow jumpsuit she is wearing. She can’t be very old judging by the state of her skin and hair. Her hair is what caught his eye, corn-gold, and the cleanest part of her. It makes him wonder when the last time he washed was. 

The delirium slowly slips away from him, as his brain is alerted to the new patron. He wants to see what Azrukhal will do. 

Unsurprisingly, Azrukhal has begun fussing before the girl has even reached the bar. He smooths his hair, straightens his jacket and smiles widely. The vault dweller must be accustomed to ghouls, or she would have recoiled from the sight of his terrifying grin, more of a predator than a friendly bar owner.

“Well hello there,” he drawls out, “Welcome to the Ninth Circle.”

“Hi,” The girl replies, with a charming smile. “I’m here to see Azrukhal. I assume that’s you?”

Azrukhal puffs up at the fact that she knows his name and has come looking for him specifically. Charon studies the two carefully. There’s something off about the girl, though he can’t quite tell what it is. The innocence conveyed in her voice and face doesn’t quite match up with her body language, or the flash of determination in her eyes. Something is telling him to watch her closely.

Just then, the doors swing open once again, the movement drawing Charon’s eye. His whole body tenses as his eye lock with none other than the devil incarnate herself, Joan. Adrenaline seems to pulse up his veins, causing his senses to sharpen and everything in the background to fade away. She doesn’t look away, only watches him with an indeterminable expression on her face. After a moment, she walks further into the bar, selects the table closest to him and sits down, proceeding to clean her nails with a lockpick. This show of normalcy seems so at odds with the way he feels, that Charon can’t help but stare. 

As though only registering his interest, Joan looks up from her meticulous task, and eyes him, one eyebrow raised. 

“Can I help you?” She asks with disinterest. 

Charon lets his gaze fall. Because he’s not allowed to respond. And she knows it. She couldn’t have been more right, he is a slave, and there is nothing he can do about it.

“Listen I get it - you can’t talk,” Joan continues, studying her hands, “You probably can’t sleep or piss unless Azrukhal gives you the OK, either. It’s pretty sad, right?” 

She isn’t wrong. Charon keeps his eyes on Azrukhal and the newcomer, though he can no longer hear them on account of Joan’s words. As though deciding that she doesn’t want to be ignored, the woman gets up and comes to stand directly in front of him, a breath away. Charon stands his ground, watching Azrukhal, but the bar owner is too distracted by the pretty young girl to notice what’s going on at the back. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” Joan says lowly. The question surprises him, and he finds himself meeting her gaze. This close, he can see the contrast between her two eyes, one a warm dark brown, the other the colour of murky river water. “Do you go to sleep imagining your hands around his throat? His blood running down your skin? Getting him back for everything he has done to you? Cut by cut, bullet by bullet.” Her face is a vicious grimace, and for a second Charon sees himself in her. 

“What are you trying to do?” He manages to murmur under his breath. 

Joan regards him for a moment, then smiles a small secret smile. “I’m trying to see what kind of man you are.” 

Before he can respond, the blond vault dweller appears next to them, holding a worn piece of paper in her hand. She looks really smug, like she just achieved something impossible.

“Joan, I’ve got it!” she announces. 

Joan looks at the younger woman in confusion, taking a step back from Charon. “Got what?”

Instead of replying, the vault dweller smiles a bright smile at Charon. “Charon, I presume?”

He flicks his eyes towards Azrukhal. He may not have noticed his conversation with Joan but he would definitely see this. The other ghoul doesn’t look happy, but there is a strange expression on his face, almost as though he is daring Charon to continue. Charon reverts to what he knows best.

“Talk to Azrukhal,”

The girl looks surprised, and exchanges a look with Joan, who shrugs, feigning ignorance. The girl regards Charon with careful eyes.

“I just did,” she says slowly, as though he’s stupid. She absently waves the piece of paper she has been holding in front of him. “I hired you, so it’s you I need to speak to.”

The words don’t register at first, and Charon find himself looking at Joan as well, as though she truly holds all the answers. The woman looks just as confused as he feels. She snatches the paper from the vault dwellers hands, ignoring her weak “hey!”. As she she skims it quickly, an ugly smirk spreads over her face, and she holds it out for Charon to take. 

“What kind of man are you?” She repeats, as he takes the mysterious paper. Charon looks at it.

In his hands is his contract.   
Evelyn.

Evie doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Between Joan’s gleeful bark of laughter, and Charon freezing up as soon as he has touched the contract, there seems to be some hidden context that she is unaware of. 

Getting the blasted thing off of Azrukhal wasn’t easy. She had had to use the utmost of her charms and a copious number of caps to butter the ghoul up enough to relinquish his rights to the bodyguard. Carol’s information had been correct - from the looks of him, Charon is exactly what she needs. With a bodyguard like him, and a guide like Joan, maybe finding her father isn’t such an impossible goal after all. 

“What for?” Charon asks eventually, seemingly breaking out of his stupor. 

“Excuse me?” 

“What have you hired me for?” His tone reveals a touch of desperation. 

Evie scrambles for words, suddenly really wishing she knew more about what was going on. 

“I’m looking for someone. And I need protection,” she says, “I mean, look at me, it’s a shock I have lasted this long.” When he didn’t laugh, she quickly adds:: “You’re good at that, right? Protection.”

Charon looks back at his contract, many emotions passing over his face, before a mask of cold calm settles over his features. He holds out the paper to her, which she takes and folds neatly into an inside pocket of her vault suit. 

“I’m the best,” he says gruffly, looking over at Joan, who winks at him. Before Evie has time to protest, Charon pushes her gently aside, reaching behind his back for his shotgun. He crosses the room in two wide steps, cocks the gun with a resolved snap, and aims it at Azrukhal’s face. 

The bartender’s features abruptly change from surprise to terror. Evie doesn't have the time to fully comprehend the situation, before his skull explodes in a shower of blood and brain matter, painting the wall behind him a dark crimson. 

Evie holds in the scream that threatens to escape her, her hands at her mouth in horror. Joan just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back from the dead.


End file.
